


The Day the Fire Died

by SaxSpieler



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Death and undeath, Lots of headcanons re. life in the Great Swamp, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, character origin, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23450521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaxSpieler/pseuds/SaxSpieler
Summary: All things die. Even the sun will burn cold one day.A brutal scrape with a hollowed soldier sends a newly branded undead far from her home and saddles her with an adopted destiny she would have rather left in her cell.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	The Day the Fire Died

Morning fog snaked between the trees, not yet beaten away by the wind that would roll in from the grasslands by midday, kissing and curling along the weed-blanketed surface of the swamp. There was barely any sound this early, save for the creaking of one of the many simple log bridges that spanned the area as one of the Great Swamp’s residents made her way across them.

With careful footsteps, she tapped the wood in front of her occasionally with the spear in her right hand to check the integrity of the bridge. The bridges were here long before her hamlet’s Eldest was born, and were magnitudes more frail - she was hardly in the mood for a surprise mud-bath at the moment. 

One particularly brisk and glancing tap with the butt of her spear struck a loose bit of wood from the bridge. The change in balance forced her to stop, caution born from experience lowering her into a three-point crouch as she felt around with her free hand. Poking and prodding the wood in front of her revealed neither sogginess nor structural weakness, and she didn’t smell the cloying stench of rot - a closer examination of where her spear impacted revealed several loose and rough splinters of bark, likely the leftovers from when this particular log was cut. 

Hardly anything to worry about. 

She pushed herself back to her feet and stared dispassionately at the fallen piece of wood, watching as it bobbed away from the bridge and towards-

Dispassion shattered as elation escaped her throat - a barely audible peep of a sound, but it was the most noise she had made in the last several days. The piece of bark had reached one of the many bald-trunked trees that stood in the swamp like wading birds, on which a large patch of brilliant red moss was growing. 

Her spear turned from bridge-tapper to depth-gauger as she sought to find a shallow enough path to her quarry. Thankful for her thick-soled, oiled boots that let nary a drop of water touch her feet, she made it to the tree and slid the large Great Chelydra shell off her back. She let it float upside down in the water as her practiced hands worked to undo the lacing that held the leather covering on its underside in place. Peeling it back released the smell of tubers and berries that she had already collected that morning, a pungent yet oddly satisfying mix - the stink of an already successful scavenging trip. 

This moss would be a bonus. An incredibly _useful_ bonus, considering its use in dyes and poultices, the latter halting profuse bleeding within moments of being applied. Calling the moss 'useful' would be akin to calling a raging inferno 'slightly warm.' Unsheathing a blunted blade from her hip, she began to ease the moss from the bark, leaving more than enough still stuck to the tree to let it regrow. 

With the moss collected, wrapped, and stored, she slung the shell back over her shoulder and extracted a piece of meticulously smoothed hide from within her belt wrap, unfurling it from the thin metal rod it had been stored with. Pinching the rod between her forefinger and thumb, she let forth a spark of the ever-churning fire deep in her chest, heating the rod enough to make it glow.

A curl of smoke and a sizzle later, another little burn was added to the forest that decorated her hands. Yet, she paid it little mind - the burns, along with her red moss-dyed hair that threaded through a number of weathered bronze beads and ornaments, were the dressings of a pyromancer, like the rest of her village.  
Holding the rod in one hand and the hide piece flat in her other, she visually traced her path taken through the swamp that morning along the blackened scorch marks that mirrored the bridge network before pressing rod to hide to denote this new gathering spot. 

A quick dip into the water quenched any residual heat the rod held, and she rolled up and returned the map to its place at her hip. As she gripped her spear and tested the ground around her for the path she had taken from the bridge, something slowed her hands and tilted her head up to the trees and fog above. 

The sun had begun to leak through the canopy, dripping through the fog in thin strands like liquified gold. She held up a hand, running it through the nearest ray and watching the dim light dance across her calloused skin, almost expecting to catch the sunlight in her palm. 

What she would do with tangible sunlight, she had no idea. Fire could be shared, but the stories warned that sunlight was for gods and plants, and she was neither. She wondered if it would be considered stealing from the Sun and his children: to cradle light that wasn’t fire.

A deep breath in and a noisy huff out sent the golden mist swirling away angrily in the silence that followed. Her hand fell back to her side, and she began the trudge back to the bridge.

Halfway back, however, her ears caught something.

With each of her sloshing steps came an echo - another set of feet moving through the water, not far from where she was. Planting her feet, she slowly scanned the area with eyes and ears, both hands now wrapped around her spear. 

Was it an animal? No, the steps were those of someone on two legs by the sound of it.

One of her fellow villagers? No, she scavenged alone, and they would take the bridge network rather than risk their ankles to holes, rocks, and chelydra. 

Squinting, she finally spotted a human-like shape melting out from the fog. Whoever they were, their stance was lopsided, their left side hanging limp and weak. They practically dragged themselves through the water, staggering and stumbling as they hit what seemed like every unseen obstacle in their path. 

She worried her lower lip as she watched their haphazard trek. As slowly and quietly as she could manage, she slid her way to the bridge and climbed back onto it, the splinters from before eating into her hands. At this distance, she could make out their figure better - they were armed and armored, and though their armor looked worn beyond usefulness, the sword they carried still looked sharp enough to kill.

_A soldier,_ she concluded. _From the capitol, perhaps. They could need help._

Raising her spear slightly, she brought the butt end of it sharply down onto the bridge once, then twice more. As the sound echoed she raised her hand, waving it to make sure she caught the soldier’s attention. Sure enough, they stopped, turned, and started shambling slowly but surely toward her.

As they got closer, she extended a hand to beckon them forward, to help them onto the bridge, but something made her draw back suddenly. They weren’t acting like a lost wanderer anymore, not if their now two-handed grip on their blade was anything to go by.

With a low groan garbled by phlegm, the soldier raised the weapon with shaking, emaciated arms, the killing tip leveled in her direction.

Then, their chain cowl shifted, and she saw their _face._

She saw the dry, lifeless skin cut through by ropes of stiff muscle and sluggish veins.

She saw the receded lips pulled tight over yellowed teeth clenched together hard enough to crack steel. 

She saw the caved-in cheeks and empty eye sockets that betrayed the skull underneath.

Her voice didn’t come, but her mind _screamed._

_H-HOLLOW!_

**Author's Note:**

> It's been 84 years, but I've resolved to publish more (as well as buffing and re-writing some older fics I've published, to dust them off).
> 
> In the meantime, I fell deep into Dark Souls lore with the release of the remaster, and I started to flesh out the story of my Chosen Undead, Vesaa of the Great Swamp. This fic, as I have it planned at the moment, will follow her story up to her escape from the Undead Asylum. Headcanons ahoy, and tags will be updated as more chapters are added.


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